


What'll I Do (When You Are Far Away)?

by milkyway



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, College, Derek Has Issues, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Derek is Stiles's Anchor, Domestic Derek and Stiles, Established Relationship, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Mates, Non-Linear Narrative, One True Pairing, Relationship Issues, Religious Conflict, Stiles is Derek's Anchor, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 02:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1051245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkyway/pseuds/milkyway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Stiles starts college, life becomes bittersweet for Derek, and he can't wait for Fridays to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What'll I Do (When You Are Far Away)?

**Author's Note:**

> An unbeta'd one-shot written under a haze of migraine medication; then Cher came on the radio singing "What'll I do?" and I was just like asdgfhjkl... there's so much sugar in this you may need an insulin shot, so you have been warned. Mild warning for implied Kate Argent seducing teenaged Derek in a flashback.

Fridays are the best.

TGIF to the power of googolplexes. 

Derek will start counting the hours the moment he arrives for his morning shift at the coffee shop, barely keeping his attention on the customers and orders. 

It’s only six months more of long-distance, but he can’t wait for them to be over.  

Sunday evenings are the worst, because Stiles will have left for San Francisco in the afternoon and a terrible loneliness will descend on the werewolf. The Sheriff, knowing his de facto son-in-law will get sucked into moping and brooding, has taken it upon himself to have Derek over for dinner. Derek is shy at first, but he appreciates it, and knows that John misses Stiles too. 

By Monday, things are a little bit better. He'll sweat in the auto shop all morning, and then sweat some more in the gym. Then he's up till the wee hours finishing his final psych module so he can finally graduate in the fall, and start his postgraduate studies at Berkeley when he moves in with his mate.

The rest of the week is devoted to studying and shifts at the café and volunteer work at Deaton's practice, because Scott is off at college now too.

Come Thursday, Derek is happy again. 

Fridays are the best. 

By one o’clock, he’s restless, practically shaking. He can’t wait to hand over his tables to the pimpled teenager who usually takes over from him before he races home.

Because Stiles will be coming home. 

Their home. 

It’s just a small apartment that has to suffice until the Hale House is rebuilt, but it’s their first place together, even if they only see each other on weekends. When Derek is back at around two, Stiles will already have been on the road for an hour, having left straight after his last class at noon. The werewolf becomes hyperactive, vacuuming, dusting, cleaning, even though he doesn’t need to. He lifts weights, showers, puts the wine in the fridge, makes sure everything is ready for supper. 

By four, he’s pacing around the apartment. If only fifteen minutes pass by, he’ll already start the freak-out. _Where is he? Could there have been an accident? Why isn’t he here yet.._

And then he’ll hear the Jeep pulling into the driveway, and Derek will race down the stairs. He’ll remember at the last minute not to leap down in a single bound because people might see, and he’ll be at the window even before Stiles has parked.

Then Stiles will be swept up into his arms, whirled about, nuzzled, covered in kisses. 

His mate is home.

 

 

*

“Hey baby,” Derek sighs, burying his face in the brunet’s neck. He scents him desperately, almost furiously, claiming him every time. _My_ mate. _My_ love. _My_ Stiles. 

“Hey, Sourwolf,” Stiles replies, tickling Derek’s ears, kissing his forehead.

“I missed you.” 

“I know. I missed you too, numbnuts. Am I always going to get this hero’s welcome when I come home every weekend?”

“What do you think,” says Derek, grinning, his fangs slightly elongated, which Stiles knows now is a sign of a happy werewolf. 

Then Derek sees the bruise next to Stiles’s left eye.

“What the hell is _that_?” he says in horror. He growls, and his fangs elongate. _Who hurt my mate?_  

“Jesus, would you relax,” Stiles says, facepalming the werewolf. “It’s just from rugby.”

“ _Rugby_?!”

“Yes. You know, the game the Brits play? That’s full of mud and tackles and no padding? I signed up for the varsity team.”

Derek whines. “It's dangerous! You’ll get hurt! You can’t…”

Stiles frowns. “Derek! I’m not _that_ fragile, you know. At least not any more. Turns out I’m pretty good passing a ball. I start as flyhalf next week.”

"Scott put you up to this, didn't he?" Derek fumes.

"Actually, I got him to sign up. Now we get to see each other at least twice a week." 

Derek groans as Stiles locks the car and they start walking back to the apartment. “So, how was your week?” asks the brunet.

“Same old, same old,” he manages, trying not to imagine Stiles being squashed by a scrum full of sweaty hyper-males. “But the house is coming on nicely. Bottom storey almost done.”

“That’s awesome. Though it’s weird, that it will be ready to move in there just as you move in with me in San Fran.” 

“I know,” says Derek, opening the door for Stiles. “But it will be waiting for us when we’re done with our studies.” 

_Our home._

Stiles flops down on the couch while Derek switches on the kettle to make coffee.  

“Stop pouting,” says Stiles, not looking up from where he’s thumbing through a copy of _Wired_ Magazine 

“I just don’t want you to get injured,” Derek mutters, getting the cups ready. 

“I know, and it’s cute,” the younger man says. “But I can’t spend my life wrapped in cotton wool because my werewolf boyfriend is scared his human is going to break into tiny pieces all the time.” 

“I know babe, but I can’t help it.”

“I understand. You’re an Alpha after all, and I’m your mate.” 

Derek sets down the coffee on the table while Stiles snuggles up to him and kisses his neck. “I’ll be safe, I promise. Plus, you should see how sexy I look in my rugby shorts… covered in mud…”

Derek growls approvingly, while Stiles licks his lips and winks at him. 

“You shouldn’t have said that,” the werewolf says, grinning, his eyes flashing red briefly. “Because now I'm going to have to ravage you and your coffee is going to get cold.” 

“That’s what microwaves are for,” Stiles giggles, and runs to the bedroom, tearing off his clothes with Derek in hot pursuit.

 

* 

Derek still shivers when he thinks about how he paced around nervously in the Stilinskis’ hallway on their first official date. The wait was unbearable while Stiles fussed around upstairs. He doesn't remember any of the girls he dated ever taking this long. Eventually the Sheriff had to grab the werewolf and pour him a shot of Jack.

“I know you can’t get drunk, son,” he said, “but have this for my sake. You’re fidgeting is driving me insane." 

"S-sorry."

 "Why are you so nervous all of a sudden anyway? You two became an item when you were staying here for goodness sake. Under my roof. With me sleeping down the hallway.” 

Derek blushed furiously, while the Sheriff tried hard to suppress a smirk. 

“Sir… John, I mean,” the werewolf said softly, “it’s just… I haven’t done this in a long time… and I want you to know…” 

“I understand, Derek,” John said, letting him off the hook. “You want to do this right. Because this is traditionally the part where I’m supposed to threaten you with my shotgun if you hurt my flesh and blood. It’s alright, son, I trust you.” 

Like Stiles, the Sheriff had always had a sick sense of humour, but gracefully resisted the urge to pat his holster for dramatic effect.  

“Thank you,” Derek managed with a shy smile. “I love him more than anything.”

“I know you do. You remind me so much of myself. When I was wooing Claudia I was terrified of her father. Even after years of marriage, the old man scared the shit out of me. I hope I haven't had quite the same effect on you." 

“I have to admit I was scared,” Derek confessed, “but I hope you’ll take that as a compliment.”

"Alpha werewolf scared of me? Good to know I maintain my authority in this town."

"You _are_ the Sheriff, sir," the werewolf said, giving him a mock salute. 

"Most importantly is that you make my son happy. It's good to see him happy. I haven't seen him... blossom... like this since his mother died."

"Thanks," Derek said quietly. "I hope you realise that I regard you as pack, John. Traditionally the parents of... mates... are revered by the pack. Whether they're wolf or human."

"I'm... very honoured," the older man said, completely disarmed. 

"I totally understand if you still find all the wolf stuff difficult to process... I know it can be overwhelming. It was even difficult for my human siblings, even though they grew up in a pack."

"Don't worry, son. It's nothing compared to Claudia's parents with all their Eastern European emotions. I mean, my family's of Polish ancestry, but we've been Americans for generations. I'm used to a bit of culture shock." 

Derek downed his whisky. "I've heard that Jewish werewolves can be particularly overwhelming to Gentiles who join their packs. Pack instinct squared."

The Sheriff snorted. “Touché. Oh, by the way, the roses are a nice touch. They were Claudia’s favourite. And Stiles likes yellow, so he won’t think it’s girly.” 

Derek suddenly realised he had been clutching the bunch of roses in his hand the whole time.

“Oh, hey, Dad, Derek!”

Derek looked up and catches sight of Stiles, and he gasped. The brunet was wearing a crisp blue collared shirt and skinny jeans and Converses that Lydia and Allison had picked out for him. His hair was still damp and there was a little spit curl dangling over his forehead and it looked utterly _adorable_.  

“I think this is my cue to leave,” said the Sheriff, and patted his son on the back as he walked back to the study.

“Um, these are for you,” said Derek, handing him the flowers awkwardly after giving Stiles a shy kiss on the cheek. 

“ _Awesome_! No-one’s given me flowers before!” 

Stiles grabbed the bouquet and jumped up and down excitedly, starting to babble. “I sent Lydia some lilies once but then she had an allergic reaction and then I read that white lilies symbolise death so that didn’t go down well but wow these are an amazing yellow just like Minions! I hope you know what Minions are by the way... have you seen _Despicable Me_?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” said Derek, nipping his mate’s ear.

“I know, I’m talking too much, and we’re going to miss the movie. Let me just put these in some water…”

 

 

*

 

Every Friday night date is still like a first date for Derek, even after six months. Except now that Stiles has started college and spends the weekends with him, they leave together from his apartment. He’s getting better at public displays of affection (Stiles is, naturally,  a little exhibitionist and loves advertising their relationship to the whole world). Derek is starting to like holding the brunet’s hand in public, kissing him at random moments such as when he’s standing behind him going down the escalator at the mall or standing in the popcorn queue at the movies. It turns out that most people couldn’t be bothered about the two young men in love. Often there are lovely little moments, like when a little old lady says to her equally shrivelled husband “Remember when we were like that, Harold?” 

Once it does nearly get ugly, when a boorish drunk hick makes a comment about “fucking fags spreading AIDS” when they’re walking in the park. The big man yelps when Derek holds him up by his neck, his feet thrashing helplessly. He’s drunk enough that he won’t remember the flashing eyes and fangs directly, but will have nightmares for weeks afterwards.  

Then there’s the time Stiles walks into a bunch of thugs terrorising two freshmen behind the bleachers who were kissing. The bullies don’t expect the brunet’s strength and speed when he intervenes, but rugby and running with werewolves have given Stiles almost preternatural powers. He manages to break two of the thugs’ noses (and several teeth) in exchange for hero status and a magnum of Moët from one of the young men’s grateful (and well-heeled) parents. 

Derek comes to all Stiles's rugby games. The pack usually comes with too, and Derek is grateful, because Allison always squeezes his shoulder when he winces as Stiles gets tackled or chased by a particularly burly player. Somehow the brunet always manages to get himself full of dirt and grass, and is always the most bruised or scratched player. Afterwards, Derek will insist on tending to his injuries himself, pinning him down so Stiles's doesn't flail about from the iodine tincture.

" _Ow ow ow fucking hell ow_!"

"Stop moaning," says Derek, as he daubs at the angry graze on Stiles's knee, his other arm holding his mate tightly against him. "I don't want it to become infected."

"It's just a graze, for goodness sake. And there are loads of antiseptics that don't sting as much as... _ow_!"  

"Shut up, or I'm not going to rub your feet. Now... hold... still..."

"You _promised_ ," Stiles says, pouting. "Wait until you need your next rabies shot. I'll use a blunt needle, I swear."

Derek sighs. "I don't know what this whole Supreme Council fuss is about anyway. All because some stupid omega went prowling about in a cave full of bats where he shouldn't have."

"You know it's mandatory for all werewolves in California to get their shots once a year. If you start foaming at the mouth from something you decided to snack on one of your full moon jaunts, I'll shoot you with my dad's shotgun myself." 

"I don't hunt small animals any more," Derek says petulantly. 

"Oh, I forgot," says Stiles, finally giving up and relaxing into Derek's grip as the werewolf pulls off his rugby socks to inspect the rest of his legs. "Mr Big Alpha I'm-too-macho-to-catch-squirrels. Oh no, I'll rip out the throats of elk and deer instead and drag their bleeding carcasses to my front door."

"Hey, no-one's ever complained about our legendary venison cookouts," the werewolf says, grinning as he remembered how Stiles freaked out when Derek brought his first big kill home.  

"Whatever," Stiles says, and grins at his mate. He pulls off his kit and folds his arm. The Celtic Cross tattoo on his deltoid twitches every so slightly, and Derek's eyes flash with desire. 

"I'm ready for my sponge bath now, Mr de Mille."

Derek snorts, and starts running the bath.

 

 

*

 

The best part of weekends, are, of course, lazy morning sex and cuddling and staying in bed until noon. Sex being a loose term early in their relationship. Derek is shy, and Stiles understands. It helps that the younger man has no reference point, but he is so grateful he is past the big 18 because, frankly, waiting for it since he had been 16 was practically unbearable. When Derek wolfs out the first time while they're fooling around, he yelps and hides in the bathroom, Stiles having to hold him for nearly ten minutes as he calms down. In reality Stiles has never been so flattered, he's taken aback that he could turn Derek on so much. But, he gets it. Kate fucking Argent forced him to wolf out when she seduced him; the bitch got off on it.

When the big S does happen, it's a bit clumsy, and hilarious, but it's _awesome_. In the afterglow they clutch onto each other for hours, drifting dreamily in and out of consciousness. Fittingly, it's in a cottage by the ocean at Big Sur that they've rented for the weekend away. The Pacific roars outside; they stay in all weekend. They explore and discover each other's bodies until every freckle, every mole, every vein and muscle and tendon is as familiar to them as stepping into a warm bath.

Stiles can't help calling Scott afterwards and gloating. It's his friend's comeuppance for years of oversharing about his escapades with Allison, and boy, does Stiles lay it on thick. But Scott is good natured. He’s relieved, frankly: the pressure's finally off. He's always felt a little guilty for stealing Stiles's thunder, as it were - superpowers and losing the big V first and being Alpha and all... Scott is his brother, after all. And he couldn't be more thrilled for his best friend, the most loyal person he has ever known.

And Stiles? 

Fridays are the best for him too. The 11:45 quantum physics lecture is always torture, to the point that he bribes Lydia with shopping trip bag-carrier duty if she will take notes so he can slip out early. He blares his favourite music with no shame in his Jeep as he starts the three hour drive to Beacon Hills: Phantom Planet. Death Cab. Supertramp. Brahms. Star Wars. 

He's never been happier in his life. He's drunk on endorphins 24/7. He can't express how much he loves his grumpy-silly-broody-softie-sweet-and-sourwolf. He's in awe of the power of the wolf, but never afraid. He feels loved, trusted, protected, honoured. He thinks like a wolf, he smells of wolf, but his humanity has never shone brighter.  

And his head is clear. The clearest its been since before his mother died. At night, pillowed on Derek’s chest, his mind is calm. Gone are the racing thoughts of the past, the anxieties that snapped at his heels in the dark, the threats of strings snapping behind his skull. There is this blissful silence he can tap into, just _be_. Derek knows it. 

They bicker too, and argue and throw things and sulk and make up. Their love is at once fierce and clumsy and painful and blissful and breathtaking. No couple is perfect, and they don’t try to be: but they know that their union is real, eternal. 

Derek will always have issues, and so will Stiles. But scars fade and become more familiar than painful. Released, the hurt of the past has no power over them but to remind them to be grateful. 

Religion is always contentious. Sometimes Stiles will angst in a confessional and come back and still be angry with God for the loss of his mother and Derek’s family. Derek will just hold him and growl gently in the way he does when he soothes any hurt member of the pack. He’s given up having Dawkins vs St Augustine set-tos because Stiles frustratingly _agrees_ that any proof of a Deity’s existence is logically diseased, yet he can’t shake off his love of Requiems and novenas and 1 Corinthians 13. Stiles’s faith is quixotic, and frustrating, and beautiful. Derek catches flashes of it when they lie on the grass on clear summer nights and look up towards the galactic centre, and Stiles’s will murmur things from the Vulgate, _tu illic es; thou art there._ Perhaps it’s easier for Derek, being a werewolf. He doesn’t need proof of something existing Out There. Because a wolf just _is_. 

Sundays are sweet torture; the afternoon goodbye inching closer and closer as they try and ignore it over breakfast and a walk in the forest and lunch with the Sheriff. It’s easier to say goodbye to both of them at his house afterwards, because the thing that really makes Stiles tear up is seeing how dejected his mate looks when he drives off: Derek would just stand there, hand still raised in greeting, staring at the Jeep becoming a pale blue dot in the distance.  

But Friday will come again, and soon, neither of them will have to worry about Sundays ever again. 

Even after many, many, years, Derek will wake first, and remain incredibly still – as only a werewolf can – as he gazes at the sleeping form of his mate. He always stares at Stiles in awe as the morning light begins to wash into the room. His teeth will lengthen slightly, and his heartbeat will quicken, and the thoughts will race briefly: _Oh my God, you’re here. You’re still here. It’s you. You’re here._

Then he’ll deftly settle his head onto Stiles’s chest, and the brunet will wake in a haze, thinking Derek is still fast asleep. And Stiles will run his fingers ever so gently through the werewolf’s tousled black hair and whisper softly to himself, _Hello my wolf._

And then it doesn’t matter what day it is. Because now that they are together, every day is the best, because life is a long summer weekend, and Stiles could swear his daily mantra is simply this:

_TGIF_.

  

_What'll I do_

_When you are far away_

_And I am blue_

_What'll I do?_

 

_What'll I do?_

_When I am wond'ring who_

_Is kissing you_

_What'll I do?_

 

_What'll I do with just a photograph_

_To tell my troubles to?_

 

_When I'm alone_

_With only dreams of you_

_That won't come true_

_What'll I do?_

 

\- Irving Berlin

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You managed all the way up to here? Check your blood sugar level!


End file.
